Can You Keep It
by Faron C. Dellis
Summary: Mary has betrayed her crippled husband and nameless daughter. Sherlock has disappeared for nearly six months. John is falling apart with no one to turn to. Rated 18 for language, suggestive/sexual themes, and violence. I'm bad with summaries, so. Just read it if you like Johnlock.
1. First

Mary Watson spun the shining band around her ring finger- a sign of her promise of infinite love, a sign of devotion and cherished smiles, a sign of _marriage_- as the cab she hid in rolled along. It was another 'ladies night'; she'd been going out of the house every week, for three weeks, on Saturday, demanding that her beloved husband have a drink with his mates and watch some crap telly, but he just wanted to stay home that night. "I love you," John had said while he adjusted the child in his good arm. Mary had peeked her head out of the car door, given his cheek a quick peck, offered a smile, and disappeared without saying anything in response. How clueless John could be, falling for her tricks and believing her sappy lies every time she came home, every time she caressed their daughter's plump cheek and smiled a soft, sad smile- one that was seen by her family as a pleasant upturn of lips. Sherlock had barely been in their lives ever since the infant came into this treacherous world; he couldn't tell her family of her lie when he wasn't present or aware that any of this was happening, so Mary was safe for the time being. He'd promised he had the perfect name for the baby, so they were waiting for him to come back from wherever he was and give them her title; for now, she was simply 'the child' or 'our daughter'. Mary's frown deepened as she recalled their undeniable trust and compassion, while she did... _this. _This went against everything she'd promised John. All the vows they had made were bound to be broken, torn, shattered, taped together and thrown against a brick wall all over again. She nearly told the cab to stop, to turn around, to leave what horrid deed she was about to play out and go home- but the vehicle stopped and she was already at her destination. Mary thanked the cabbie and gave him the same amount of currency she always did; fifty pounds to bring her to such a place. She took a deep breath, closed and reopened her eyes, and crawled out of the cab.

Slipping through the front door of the seemingly abandoned warehouse, Mary took a look around. It was all vaguely familiar: dimly lit scenery, a bed with satin sheets behind closed doors at one end of the building, a small kitchen with an island bar and three bar stools in its center, and a living room, complete with a flat-screen television and cool leather cushions upon the cream sofa. Her red heels gave a sound _click, click _with every step she took- the sound of footfalls jumbled her thoughts of what was to come. Mary was frowning again. She didn't enjoy the idea of doing this, but... a doctor's wife? Worthless infant's mother? She grimaced visibly upon that thought- no, the child wasn't worthless, she was a mere babe, and couldn't do anything of importance yet. Actually, she was born, and that was the happiest moment of Mary's life; cradling a newborn in her limp arms, beautiful but red and squishy and sobbing, and she nearly cried as memories flooded her sharp mind. _"She's perfect," John whispered gently, cupping his nameless daughter's face and giving it a fat kiss. "So perfect, Mary. I love her. I love _you. _Forever." Mary smiled weakly, tears spilling over her eyelids and down her flushed expression. "Yes," was all she said, and left it at that; she couldn't lie to him right then. _Mary sniffed and sat herself down on the couch, her pocketbook in her lap. Another deep breath. She stole it from the pleasant-smelling air around her before calling out.

"Jim?"

* * *

><p>John suspected something was wrong. He felt it in his gut; it was his gut feeling, and he relied on it. It had saved him countless times before. As he moved spoonfuls of carrot-flavored mush into his daughter's mouth, he thought of this. His stomach hurt and made him queasy- so much so that he simply packed up the Chinese takeout he'd gotten from his favorite albeit revolting restaurant (Sherlock made him get chow mein from there whenever he actually ate. It was the only place other than the shop below their flat he would get food from) and stowed it away in the fridge. Mary didn't have many friends, from what he knew; she was always at his or Sherlock's side or working, but they worked the same hours, so that was out of the question. Was she with Sherlock, solving crimes? Did Sherlock disappear but keep talking to Mary? Did he like her more, think her investigation skills were better than John's, and leave John to fend for himself while Sherlock stole his wife away, slowly and painfully, bit by bit, until John and the baby didn't matter? Was she... cheating on him with Sherlock...? John shook his head violently at that- Sherlock made his first and last vow to help their partnership, not destroy it. The consulting detective was 'the virgin', anyways. Why would he waste his purity on an affair? John realized he'd been sitting there with a miniature spoon full of orange goop in his hand without giving it to his child for at least two minutes."Oh, Christ-" He blinked and swooped his forearm inward. His daughter swallowed the food immediately; she'd been waiting. It had been two months since she was born and she could already escape the confinement of her bedroom. She was very quiet, though, and barely ever babbled or cried, but she was very curious. She'd once crawled out of her crib, down the hall, and caught her parents shagging. They didn't notice until they were finished because she sat in the doorway soundlessly the entire time, staring and listening intently- observing. John was reminded of Sherlock just then; Sherlock had done the same thing once, only he was under the bed, and they didn't find out until he grunted- he was flattened against the carpet with every thrust of John's hips because of the force it applied to the bed springs. John laughed at that; he was livid when he had to stop and check under the bed, finding a consulting detective staring up at him and looking frazzled. "That hurts," Sherlock's baritone voice was slightly muffled against the mattress above him. "I can only imagine how Mary feels." And the three of them ended up giggling like teenagers after they were all dressed again (and after John was finished). Snapping out of his thoughts to focus on feeding the baby in front of him while watching the telly wasn't too hard- John liked to melt his brain with romantic comedies and bad-smelling jars of who-knows-what. So he did that instead.<p>

Just as the doctor was pushing the last bite into his babe's mouth, his mePhone beeped. He knew that chime; simple and curt, but familiar nonetheless. He almost thought it was Sherlock texting him but he knew better. "Greg," he murmured under his minty breath. He'd decided to brush his teeth before feeding the baby since he didn't plan on eating. "Wonder what's wrong." Crossing the kitchen was no longer an easy task because of the building weight of stress on his shoulders- and in his leg. His cane tapped rhythmically against the bathroom-like tiles on the floor as he went for his mobile. John leaned against its hooked shape with one hand and reached out with the other, snatching his phone up and unlocking it.

_Come to Bart's now. Emergency _

And that was all it said. Greg should know to text Sherlock, not him. John blinked and typed in a response with only his thumb.

_I'm watching the baby. What happened? _

Another ring.

_Get a sitter or give her to Mary. COME NOW! _

John groaned; he had no idea where Mary went on her ladies' night and it was almost two in the morning (the baby was practically nocturnal- slept all day, partied all night) so he had no chance of calling the neighbors over. "Oh, yeah," he growled under his breath as he hobbled back to his child, phone in pocket. "I'll get a sitter at two in the bloody morning. Or _maybe, _Mary'll magically come home and watch the kid! She'll totally have the energy to take care of a child without a bloody name because _Sherlock went missing!" _He'd been having random fits of anger ever since Sherlock left and Mary kept venturing further and further from home. He needed them to stay strong, but one was gone and the other never even said "I love you" anymore. John sighed, collected his thoughts, and decided. He was going to bring the baby with him to Bart's since Lestrade knew better than to bring him to a crime scene without Sherlock. He couldn't handle things properly when he was the sidekick and Sherlock was the superhero. "Okay, babe." John smiled at his blood, sweat and tears in a miniature figure wearing a pink jumper an a diaper with small floral designs. The jumper wasn't even his idea- Sherlock had recommended dressing the child like John before he'd gone missing, before the child was born. He lifted her into his good arm and limped outside, propping his side up on his cane to wave at a cab. It was raining heavily by then and the cabbie must've pitied him, because it actually pulled to a stop at the curb. "Saint Bart's Hospital," he said briskly as he slid into the back seat, gaining a nod in response and a purring engine. "Step on it."

* * *

><p>Mary should've known better than to do these things. She was in bed, but it wasn't her bed. It wasn't the bed she shared with John- no, it was the bed she shared with <em>him. <em>Every Saturday night, she would leave her crippled doctor husband and her nameless infant and go to Jim Moriarty's shag pad. She would have some fun for a few good hours and return home early in the morning. She didn't know how it happened, but one night, she found him. Moriarty simply standing in the light drizzle on a Saturday night. She reached for her phone, dialed her husband's number, but he looked so welcoming that she talked to him instead. He spoke of the rain, they disappeared into his warehouse-like cave, and ended up shagging. Hard. His arm was now draped over Mary's side as he snored mutely, his chest, splotched with a soft amount of auburn curls, pressed into her pale back. Moriarty had told her, the first time this occurred, that she could leave as soon as he was asleep so that John didn't worry. She felt her heart crack the first time she heard that, but he also stated that he would be here. In the warehouse. Waiting for her. So she kept coming back and getting addicted to his evil musk. He was sleeping now. His silent snores brushed over the nape of her neck, sent a prickle of excitement down her spine, made her long for more. She wished John would still love her if- no, when- when he found out about her affair, and she felt a sliver of hope seep into her when she recalled what had happened with the failed assassination. _"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mary quickly pulled the trigger of her firearm, feeling the small jolt run up her wrist to her shoulder from the relieved pressure of a bullet. The lead struck Sherlock in the lower abdomen, and he wavered for what she would say was years before dropping on his back, his coat and the flowing blood pooling around him like an abyss. _Sherlock had survived and later tricked Mary into revealing her secret of being a ruthless killer to John- she also told him that she was the one who shot Sherlock. He'd forgiven her even then, so maybe, just _maybe... _

Mary slid into her red high heels. She had escaped Moriarty's arm slung over her and got dressed a moment before as these thoughts raced through her intelligent mind. Rising from the sweat-damp mattress and hurrying out of the room, Mary padded into the rain. She sighed. "No umbrella," she reminded herself as she waited by the road for a cab. Her mePhone rang just as one pulled over and she slithered inside like the betraying serpent she was before answering the call. "Hello?" _"Mary! I've been trying to call for hours." _John. Mary swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. What if he already found out? What if Sherlock had returned while she was having sex with her husband's enemy and told him everything? He sounded pissed. "O-oh, I'm sorry... Night got a little bit crazy." She offered a tight laugh. _"It's fine, it's fine- hey, can you come to work? I've got the baby here and-" _"Why are you at work with the baby?" Mary blinked, pawing a hand over the lower half of her mobile to whisper 'go to Saint Bart's' before returning to her conversation. _"Greg called me in. Just- can you come here and take her? I'm busy." _John sounded like he was struggling on the other line. He probably was, with their child in a hospital, probably looking at dead bodies... "I'm coming over now. Just got in a cab. See you there." Mary shut her phone off in a rush. She didn't want to hear him say 'I love you'.

-.^.-

The cab slid to a stop on the slick road and its driver gave Mary a polite smile. "Have a good night," he called after her when she payed and darted into Bart's. What could possibly be so urgent at three in the morning? Lestrade should have called Sherlock, not his crippled sidekick and their dysfunctional baby- she stopped herself again. _They're perfect. They're perfect and they deserve so much better, _she gravely thought to herself as she nudged the door open that led to the stairway. This had been where she met John for the first time. He looked pasty, frail, and very sad all the time at the office. Mary had been rushing to get downstairs because she was called to assist in something she normally didn't take part in; the examination of a corpse. She had been told to simply hold tools while they picked at the body, but she felt a jolt of excitement run up her spine nonetheless. Much more fun than being a lousy nurse. Mary had shoved the door open and run right into John Watson, who dropped a stack of books and splayed them out cross the floor. "Oh, sorry-" She'd flushed and helped him gather his fallen objects, and that was when their hands touched. Before she knew what was happening, she'd accepted an invitation to dinner, and then she'd become engaged, and married, and pregnant, and a mother, and a _liar. _Mary broke away from her thoughts as she padded downstairs, through the dim hall that led to the room she knew John would be in if called by Lestrade, and stepped inside.


	2. Second

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. Special thanks to Resrie71 for making me want to continue this.**

* * *

><p>John rocked his hips from one side to the other, humming lullabies to his child between short responses to Greg as the DI explained what was happening. Apparently, they'd received a message about Sherlock. His scarf was draped over the examination table, splattered with drying flakes of blood, and attached to its stitching was a sticky pad. "And what does it say?" John questioned, patting the baby's rump. He'd managed to remain calm throughout examining the evidence. Inside, his stomach flipped and twisted, begging him to say something too quickly and end up vomiting. But he convinced a fragment of his mind that all was fine and pushed away the thoughts of Sherlock being injured, gasping for breath and choking on the blood in his lungs, the barrel of a pistol seemingly glued to the back of his skull. John shivered- no, that wouldn't happen. Sherlock was too clever to get himself caught in such a situation. It made him seem weak. The doctor shook his head and continued. "Is it from him?" "No," Greg responded, dusting his latex-concealed fingertips over the note. "Too neat to be his handwriting." <em>Probably hasn't checked for fingerprints yet. <em>"Well... Have you dusted for prints?" "There aren't any." Greg seemed focused- more focused than he had ever looked like on a case that involved murder or suicide. His brows were furrowed, the gray hairs flecked with silver from the sweat making his hairline and the scruff over his chin shine. His tongue darted out, swiped over his upper lip, and cleared it of the salty perspiration. The DI wouldn't let anyone near the scarf though. No one knew what was on the note but him. He guarded it like a snarling bear would its cubs. He also had his crew swarming all over London, checking for any more clues minus the one that was left so obviously on the counter. John remembered what Sherlock had said about villains wanting to be caught. If this was a villain. "You still haven't answered my question," the shorter reminded Greg, scrunching up his nose when the baby in his arms burped up some sort of liquid on his jumper. Greg opened his mouth and- Mary barged in, her heels sharp against tiles and spiking loud clicks. Her and John's child twisted in John's arms, reaching for the woman.

"What happened?" Mary asked, prying the babe from her husband. He, in turn, gestured to Greg with his good arm- well, not really his good arm. It was actually the one with a spiraling scar cutting through his shoulder, brown-gray and ugly, marked from war, but he couldn't lean on the cane he owned with that arm, so- good arm. "Greg found a hint on where Sherlock is." A flash of emotion caught Mary's expression- worry? terror?- but quickly dissolved into a wide smile. "Really? That's great! Where is he?" "Well, we don't actually know. Or, I don't. Greg. The note?" Greg was scanning the scarf over and over with his chocolate gaze. He glared at the sticky note, lips drawn back in a snarl- which reminded John, again, of the bear assumption. John waited, but Greg never answered. He sighed. "Greg?" "Oh- yeah. Yeah?" The inspector finally looked up, his hair frazzled and eyes sunken into his skull, ringed with violet. Visibly exhausted. "The note, Greg." He gave a nod and closed his medically gloved fingers around one end of the yellow square paper. Peeling it off, Greg exhaled nasally, peeled it off the cloth, and held it up for John and the quiet Mary to read. John's mouth fell open. Behind him, Mary offered a faint gasp, whispered 'no...' into the creamy satin scarf around her neck. This man was dead- or, he was for a long time before he came back- and the message from said man was all too similar. The good doctor cleared his throat and read the note's content aloud. "Miss me?"

* * *

><p>It was deliciously easy to ruin things. Instead of baking a cake, for example, one could simply enter a bakery and take a bite out of the prettiest one. It would satisfy momentary hunger, and one could enjoy the thought of destroying something at the same time. Another example, you ask? How about, instead of finding a single woman and ravishing her body day after day, one could steal the wife of a hero and fuck her into oblivion every week or so. It would satisfy momentary hunger, and one could, again, enjoy the thought of destroying something- a marriage- at the same time. This was Moriarty's guilty pleasure; ruining things. A turn-on of his. He couldn't help but grin as he watched the doctor's wife undress for him beside the bed before the fun began. He grinned again when she assumed him unconscious and scuttled off. He was tempted to glance at the closet behind her during their play- but no. She would get suspicious, turn around, ask him if there was something in there. He'd say no and try to pull her into bed, but she would be determined to see what lay inside, and open the closet door. Moriarty would have to pull the gun out of the bedside table, hidden beneath the lube and protection, and fuck her brains out with a bullet instead of with his prick. The thing in the closet would get splattered with gray and pink mush, mixed with blood that didn't belong to its own body, and it would react in a flash of different emotions. It might be horrified, with gross brains covering its face and all. It could be enraged because it knows Mary and cares for her and wishes for her safety. It could be lost, in a daze, because it would wonder what the Hell Mary was doing in Moriarty's playhouse. The list goes on. Moriarty was a consulting villain. <em>The <em>consulting villain. And as crawled into the closet and slid Sherlock's bloody scarf from around the man's pale, marked neck- not with kisses or bites, but with yellowing fingerprints, sadly- he thought of this. He smirked and gave an 'mm', stroking the taller's high cheekbone. "Mary wasn't too loud as she cheated on your crush this time, was she, my love?" Moriarty asked, gaining a sharp glare in response. The look in this once timid detective's eyes was now feral, monstrous, and burning with fiery hatred. Pale gray irises were now lime green and tinted with azure, speckles of silver around the pupils, and Moriarty couldn't stop himself from reeling away from the pure intensity of it all.

"Wow, Sherlock," he beamed, leaning over and brushing his lips against the other's courage-red pair before rising to his feet, the scarf bundled up in his arms. "I bet you'd be roaring like a _dragon _if I told you you were allowed to speak." Moriarty had established rules. No screaming, no noises, no talking- was one of them. Another was no coming out of the closet. He put a little smiley face beside that one on the sheet of paper he had stapled to the inside of the closet door. The last- Moriarty's favorite- was that Sherlock had to kiss back whenever he was kissed first. Moriarty wouldn't have sex with him or anything like that, no- Sherlock was a virgin. He wasn't that evil. But. These were the rules Sherlock had to follow, or his 'family'- John and Mary and their nameless baby- would be slaughtered. So, when Moriarty swooped down and kissed the battered detective again, he instinctively felt the lips mold against his- compassionately, but surely a contact full of spite- and nearly swooned. Dream come true. The consulting criminal smirked and slammed the closet door shut, fled to the kitchen, and wrote 'miss me? ;)' on a sticky note before slapping it against the navy scarf in his hands- all the while remaining naked. He was slightly hard again, just from kissing Sherlock. The things a man like that could do with a _mouth _like that... Moriarty shivered and giggled. He felt like a kid again as he dressed up in simple clothing and sent the scarf to one of his accomplices in Bart's via secret mailman. They owed him a favor. Everyone did.

* * *

><p>Mary couldn't believe her own eyes. She probably reeked of sweat and lies and if Sherlock was kidnapped by Jim... She was shagging with her friend's kidnapper? She breathed a small 'no' against her scarf. Despicable. She wondered now if she'd given him some sort of information while they were together, if he'd brainwashed her into spilling secrets between each gasp and groan she mustered and she shuddered horribly. <em>Despicable. <em>Mary knew what she'd been doing was wrong already as she cradled her own child that was so clueless as a tortured Sherlock was probably chained up and gagged and- raped? Maybe she couldn't satisfy Jim, so between episodes, he forced Sherlock to suck him off or- or worse? Mary felt like she was going to cry. She'd been so foolish. "Moriarty has Sherlock," Lestrade finally concluded, dipping his head as his palms fell flat against the countertop and his shoulders became sharp. John exhaled shakily, turned, and gathered Mary in a vacant embrace. "Moriarty has Sherlock," he repeated softly against her ear, murmuring things unintelligible. Mary adjusted their child, kept her from getting crushed in the hug, and repressed a flow of tears. Sherlock was kidnapped by Jim. Mary had an affair with Jim. If Sherlock was somewhere with Jim, he could be in the warehouse. He could have heard them- heard _her _if he wasn't already dead. They would need information on where Jim was, and she knew. They would probably question how she knew his location. She wouldn't be able to answer, but she would insist that everyone go to the warehouse anyways. A living friend mattered more than the affections of her lover. Lestrade and John would bust the doors down with a team of policemen and search until they found Jim and Sherlock, if they were there. Jim would be brought to justice- hopefully, Mary thought, but probably not- and Sherlock would recover. He had before, when she had shot him in the stomach, and he had made her tell John that she was the one with the gun, the criminal in the story. He would probably do it again once they found him. She could see it now. "Liar!" Sherlock would cry, writhing in the hospital bed and sending the tubes connected to his veins flailing. "You liar! Awful woman! Get out! Get out!" It didn't sound like him in her head, not the collected and intelligent man full to the brim with knowledge until he spilled over the floor and made Anderson clean his wisdom up. Anderson wouldn't use a sponge, though- he'd use a dish rag or a paper towel and wouldn't gain anything. Sherlock would tell him that he lowered the IQ of the whole street by standing there, and then the detective would retreat to John, who would be hunched over a woman in flaming pink, to keep from getting arrested.

John.

Oh, John, so caring and sweet and overflowing with more love than Sherlock had brains. Impossible not to like- Sherlock had proved that, as he didn't normally like anyone- and able to see a person as a person when others saw them as pawns. He taught people how to have a heart and how to enjoy life as it was, with his cane and scars and small wrinkles and jumpers and thundering pulse that pumped hot, fuzzy blood. He cared so much that he made the beast in the long black coat smile as John's warmth enveloped it and made the ice in its veins thaw. He cared so much that he forgave a secret spy that broke his soul like a cracked window and took her back in and continued loving her forever. He cared so much that he was trembling in Mary's arms with soft hics and sobs as Sherlock was abducted and held hostage with his scarf missing and he was probably cold without his scarf, wasn't he, and John must have been wondering if he was sick from the wind because once they'd both caught colds before Mary was in the picture and Sherlock couldn't handle sickness well, and- "Mycroft. We need to phone Mycroft, now, _now!" _John tore out of Mary's arms, nearly knocking the baby away in the process, and fumbled for the mobile in his pocket. Lestrade, Mary, and the child watched mutely as he flicked a thumb vertically on the touch screen and tapped it several times, probably cracking the screen while slamming the digit down against his contacts. The phone flew up to his ear, rang softly several times, and then gave a muffled greeting. "Mycroft! It's Sherlock, he's- he's missing, Mycroft, and Moriarty has him. Please find him!" There was more fuzzy replies on the other line. "Moriarty's come back, we know it, Mycroft- _please, _he could be dead!" Lestrade and Mary exchanged glances. The umbrella-wielding man hinted that he had a heart on multiple occasions, but he did not sound worried from what the two could hear. His wordless tone was gentle and even. "Yes. Please, Mycroft, please, there isn't any time to waste if you can find him..." Mary drowned out the conversation with her thoughts. She would get found out. She knew she would. Mycroft, the British government housed within a single, tall, dark figure with dead eyes and a hatred toward goldfish would track Sherlock and Jim down with the help of his trusty security tapes. He would see Mary enter the building, and, most likely from body language, tell that she was about to have sex before she went inside. John abruptly lowered his phone back into his pocket, visibly gathered his sanity, and wheeled around on his heel to face Lestrade. "Greg," he said curtly. "Mycroft is going to track Sherlock's mobile and check all security tapes. Get the police."


	3. Third

**Author's Note: Sorry if you like Lestrade.**

* * *

><p>There was a sinking feeling in Mary's stomach when the police spilled in through the double doors of Bart's. She didn't want to be found out. The affair was the worst thing she could ever hope to do to a person she 'loves'. But it was guaranteed now. No going back. She swallowed the needles in her throat that split the flesh and stopped her lungs from doing their job. "John," she began weakly. "John." "Not now, love." John said it tenderly, but his gaze was metallic, locked on the swarming policemen filing in and out of the surgery. He was ready to kill, his white-knuckled grip crushing the cane's handle as he held onto it, the other clinging to his gun. It wasn't the biggest or showiest, but very strong, and capable of murder, like John himself. Mary swallowed again. It would be incredibly easy for her to come out with the truth and for him to slaughter her, right there, in front of everyone. He'd been livid last time something like this had happened, and his patience was worn thinner than printer paper. Her best chance of escaping death by his hand was stealing the gun and aiming at her own forehead. "John," Mary repeated, and held their baby out to him. "Take her. I've- got to go." She had to run away. She couldn't live here anymore. Maybe she could go to China, or America. Anywhere but here. John shook his head. "I can't. I've got to be ready for when we find out where Sherlock is," he replied, one finger ghosting over the trigger of the Sig Sauer at his hip. "You just go home. Bring her along. It's not safe here."<p>

"John, I can't... Take her. Please." John's irises were hardening. He was getting irritated. "Mary, go. The baby needs to sleep and you're bringing her home. Get out." Lestrade glanced up from the floor, barked an order into his mobile, and raised a brow. "You guys 'lright?" he asked gently, one hand over the phone. John nodded and said, "Mary's just leaving. Taking the babe with her. Go, Mar'."

Mary's throat was closing sharply again, but she dipped her head and meekly tore out of Bart's, shoving past officers. She didn't know what to do with the cooing child. She had to leave, and it wouldn't help if she stole the baby and took her along. An orphanage might work, but John was a great father, and would take good care of her after Mary had gone. She didn't know anybody that could hold onto the unnamed figure without spilling the beans to John, unless- she didn't tell them. Her neighbor owed her a favor for saving her teenage son, so she leaped into a cab and ordered that the driver bring her to the older woman's home. The ride was quick and dismissive, and in no time Mary was rapping sharply on the front door of a little building next to wear she lived, shoving her baby into the clueless woman's arms when the door swung open, and running again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she chanted between brisk pants, tears flying behind her in spheres of salty fluid, thoughts racing faster than her feet ever could take her. She never should have gone with Moriarty to begin with, and now she was running from home, running from a continent, giving away children and abandoning family. She'd never see anyone ever again. She would have to start over with another new name, and-

"Mrs. Watson?" A policeman swiped the beam of his flashlight over her countenance. He probably knew her from the papers, or saw her with John at Bart's during a case. This was a bad thing. She didn't want to see someone, anyone right now, not like this. Not ever. "What are you doing out here?" "I... I-" Mary didn't have an excuse for running and crying. His gray eyes widened when he finally took in her state. "Mrs. Watson...? What happened?"

Suddenly, Mary had an idea.

She sniffed and forced a sob. "I-I... Found Moriarty," she said between gasps and tears. "I've been spying on him for weeks. He thinks I'm on his side, a-and... He's in a warehouse. I'll show you!" Before she had even finished, the officer was shouting into his walkie-talkie, giving orders and arguing with risen volume. The quiet, rain-drenched streets echoed his calls and tossed them through her skull, bouncing behind her eyes and digging into her brain like spears. He redirected his attention to her again, and gave a gentle, reassuring smile. "Everything is alright," he said, and he took his rain-repelling coat off to drape it over her shoulders. "Can you tell me where the warehouse is?"

* * *

><p>Before he knew what was happening, Moriarty and his 'palace', as he liked to call it, were being swarmed with policemen. He never thought they'd actually, well, find him, but oh well! He grinned mischievously when they arrived. "My love is in the building," he purred to the officers in a sing-song voice as they restrained him, just in case. "He's been waiting on you. Tell him I say he can leave!" His feet dragged along as he was brought to the Detective Inspector's car. "Hello," he smiled again, and shook his wrists pointedly as he dropped into the back seat. "Mind giving me a hand?" "Nice try," came the dry reply from the driver's seat.<p>

The vehicle's engine started with a healthy growl and it gave Moriarty delighted shivers. He loved when things growled, especially at him. "Please, love," he crooned, holding his arms out and sticking them between the passenger and driver's seat. "They're so tight." "Get back," the DI answered roughly, emitting a soft rumble from his throat. "Forceful," Moriarty laughed and pulled away, reclining in his spot.

_Poor lad. Sexy, but gray hairs aren't my thing, _he thought to himself, and jingled the chains between his wrists. _Gotta wait till we get far away. Then I'll visit Mary darling._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

John attempted the locked closet door down. Deep moans could be heard from inside minutes earlier, and they silenced when he screamed the man's name. "Sherlock!" he cried again, his bad shoulder throbbing as it collided with the door's surface. A police officer caught his arm, pulled him back, and when he ripped free, several more latched onto him. Another promptly explained that they could unlock the door, and he shrugged them all off, nodding in reluctant acknowledgement.

Sherlock was okay. Mary and the baby were okay. _Oh, Mary..._ Mycroft had said that she was sneaking out to a warehouse every Saturday night for a few weeks, and at first, John had been enraged. He thought she was having an affair, and _he _thought his life was horrible enough. But when they got a call that said that Mary was spying on Moriarty to find Sherlock, he was more than relieved. Mycroft sounded displeased with the news over the phone, but he always sounded displeased, so John brushed it off.

"There," stated the officer that had actually spoken to him instead of trying to maul him. He lifted a small tool in his gloved hand, waved it around, and pointed to the door knob with it. "Don't open it yet. It might be a trap." He sauntered off, along with the other policemen, and left John alone with what could either be a sniper, an atomic bomb, or a broken consulting detective. He needed to open the door. Sherlock could be hurt in there. And what if Moriarty had planned this all along? What if he moved Sherlock far away and left a recording of his final breaths behind a closed door, taped to a bomb that would set off the second the door flicked open.

"Everything is happening so fast..." John dropped his forehead against the surface of the only way in or out of the now hellish closet. Mary, a spy for him, but not telling him she had been 'recruited'? Sherlock, missing and hurt, possibly mere inches away from his strong hold? Their nameless child, who could be anywhere by now, since Mary was in the streets somewhere alone? John himself, confused, terrified, and slowly breaking, unsure of who to trust and who is even... real? John growled at himself. Everyone was real. He was acting stupid and going crazy. There was too much pressure on his leg. He could barely stand. "Stop getting distracted," he said aloud, standing upright and leaving the bedroom. He didn't want to be insane. He'd be like that one "time traveler" he and Sherlock met and he was definitely certifiable. He sighed gently. "We'll know soon enough."

John stalked through the rest of the house, examined the furniture, washed his sweaty hands in the sink. Everyone was bustling around him and screaming, and he was taken aback, but without Greg or Sherlock he guessed no one had any idea what to do. He looked at Sally. "Hey," he said, and she returned the stare, but her gray eyes were vacant and glassy. John blinked. "Oh, are- you okay?" He didn't think Sally would care about Sherlock. She hated him. Called him a freak. Why was she so upset? "John... Haven't you heard?" He shook his head.

"Greg's dead, John."


End file.
